


dawn

by geralehane



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 20:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13959435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geralehane/pseuds/geralehane
Summary: Lexa becomes Clarke's sexual revelation and a source of creative inspiration. Of course, they fall in love in the process, and it's messier than Clarke's canvas. (rough sex mentioned, bits of bdsm mentioned)





	dawn

**Author's Note:**

> check out [my tumblr](http://geralehane.tumblr.com) for a link to my other works! 
> 
> enjoy your read!

 

Lexa’s unlike anyone she’s ever met, and that’s the red flag she chooses to ignore. You never think that about people who aren’t about to become special to you – and Lexa? Lexa became someone special right from the start. 

Sometimes, she can’t believe her luck. There are times she’s wished she turned and ran that night. 

***

Lexa’s eyes burn bright green when they find hers across the room for the very first time, and whatever Clarke is about to say dies in her throat. Her companion doesn’t notice, and she doesn’t care. The conversation was becoming of a dull variety, with or without the sight of a gorgeous stranger distracting Clarke from it. A stranger that keeps staring at her; and there is a slow, small smile spreading across her beautiful face. 

Beautiful. That’s what strikes Clarke the most, immediately, and it’s like a bucket of ice cubes poured over her on an unbearably hot day. Startling and relieving. Lexa’s beauty is undeniable. If it weren’t for her complete creative depletion, Clarke thinks, she would’ve drawn her. 

Instead, that very night, Lexa’s the one to paint her with red hues of lipstick and marks and kisses that bruise.

***

She leaves just before sunrise – fades into the grey light of almost-morning, with a whisper of a kiss below Clarke’s ear. 

Clarke pulls out a fresh, empty canvas when the door shuts with a soft click, and stares and stares and stares. 

***

She’s not even that surprised when she comes back home after a long day at the studio and sees Lexa standing at her door, clearly contemplating whether or not she should knock. 

“Probably should’ve asked for your number,” Lexa tells her in lieu of greeting, her barely-there half-smile ever present and her gaze even and calm. 

Clarke pushes herself off the wall she leaned against while she observed Lexa’s silent conversation with herself. “Probably,” she echoes. “How long have you been standing here?” 

“Does it matter?” Lexa asks quietly. Clarke doesn’t reply. She knows the question doesn’t call for an answer. Their entire arrangement that she agrees to when she accepts the hungry kiss Lexa offers doesn’t call for an answer, or a conversation, really. 

“I – inside,” she breathes out when they break apart for air. 

Lexa pretends she misunderstood – and when her fingers slide under the hem of her dress and dance across her inner thigh, Clarke pretends that’s what she meant. 

***

Lexa practically carries her into her bedroom after the quick yet deafening orgasm in the hallway. The only reason she doesn’t fully collapse in her arms afterwards is the adrenaline rush from letting her have her out in the open. Anyone could’ve walked in on them, any second. She thinks it wouldn’t have been half as hot if it weren’t for that. (Lexa proves her wrong once they reach her bedroom. Safely hidden from the world, she still burns and melts under her greedy hands.)

They pass the canvas, and Clarke busies herself with the elegant curve of Lexa’s neck. The fact that it shields her from the blinding, white emptiness is just an added bonus. 

That’s how it starts.

***

That second night they spend together, Clarke wakes up just before dawn, and Lexa’s still there, a thin sheet wrapped around her torso as she sleeps. She looks so young, and – vulnerable, but not weak. Never weak. 

Clarke doesn’t think as she climbs out of the bed and brings the canvas into the room, and she’s fortunate enough to have tired Lexa out so much that she doesn’t wake for the next couple of hours. When she does, it’s to the sight of Clarke perched on a stool before an easel, with nothing but a long, worn t-shirt covering her body as she paints away. She’s the picture of absolute concentration – concentration that cracks and falls apart when she notices Lexa slowly stretch and rise from the bed. 

The sun is hitting her body just right, and for a second, Clarke forgets how to breathe. 

“This is incredible.” Lexa’s voice is close, just like her, as she circles Clarke to look at the canvas where she’s portrayed in all of her morning sleeping glory, her legs tangled up in sheets and her upper body nude. “You’re incredible.” 

“So are you.” 

Lexa’s lips are warm on her shoulder. She smells _warm,_ too – Clarke didn’t know it was possible, but she can’t think of another word. Like sleeping in on a summer Saturday. 

The kisses venture lower, and suddenly sleep is the furthest thing on her mind.

***

“I’ve always had a weakness for artists,” Lexa tells her later, much later, as they lay in bed, entwined. Just breathing. Clarke doesn’t think it’s an affectionate thing. It’s more of a… _fully appreciating each other’s beauty_ thing. Lexa does have an affinity for art, it turns out. “And you’re an amazing one.” 

“Bet you say that to every artist you meet.” 

“Just the ones I sleep with.” 

Clarke bursts out laughing, and thinks she doesn’t want the day to end. 

***

“I’m not really an artist. I mean,” she stumbles under Lexa’s incredulous stare. “I haven’t been one for a while. I haven’t felt… inspired in a long time.” 

“Well,” Lexa says, and smirks, and presses a kiss full of heady promises just below Clarke’s jaw. “I’ve never felt this flattered.” 

Admitting your two-night-stand is the biggest and pretty much only source of creativity you’ve had in _years_ isn’t the wisest idea. But she doesn’t have time to scold herself for the slip-up. Lexa’s gaze is coyly amused as she slithers down Clarke’s body, and by the time she reaches her destination, all Clarke thinks about is _lower faster please right there yes--_

***

She doesn’t expect their third time to take the turn it takes. When it does, she has no choice but to go with it – or, perhaps, she does have a choice and a say, but the illusion of _not_ makes the experience all the more electrifying. And she can’t deny the undeniable. It leaves her buzzing. High, and she never wants to get down. 

It should terrify her, she thinks, how much she ends up craving more when it’s over. 

It all starts with a small nip of Lexa’s teeth and her body’s unexpected reaction. She remembers Lexa’s eyes as she took her in, as if seeing her for the first time: wide with dark, pleased surprise as she slows and hovers above her. 

Time freezes. Clarke freezes, too. Lexa’s nails barely graze her skin as her fingers trail up her arms, almost ticklish. Almost teasing, but her gaze is not; it’s dark and heavy with a question that’s not really a question. A demand, Clarke realizes later, much later, as she sits in a bathtub and lets an electric shock of pleasure run through her again at the memory. Lexa’s eyes burn with an impatient, barely hidden demand, and Clarke thinks she’s had a hard time controlling herself in that moment. 

Lexa holds her gaze as she slowly lifts Clarke’s arms above her head. Clarke’s still and unsure, but there are already shivers running through her body that she can’t stop, even if she wanted to. And she doesn’t want to. 

One hand grasps two of her wrists, and her own short gasp takes her by surprise, but not Lexa, it seems. Lexa only smirks, briefly, and then it fades as her thumb runs down Clarke’s cheek, to her lips, outlining the contour. Clarke suddenly feels brave enough to poke her tongue out and lick, causing Lexa’s smirk to reappear and stay as she takes her thumb away to cup Clarke’s chin. There’s a calculating, studying expression on her face as she cocks her head to the right, searching Clarke’s face. 

Then, she tightens her grip on Clarke’s wrists and watches her cry out and arch into her, seeking contact. Clarke’s pretty sure she’s dripping at this point, and she’s never felt this _ache_ between her legs. Craving to be touched. To be filled. 

Used. 

The realization hits hard, and Clarke can’t stop her body from convulsing. If this slight change in the dynamic gets _this_ reaction out of her, she can’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like down the road. 

But Lexa’s not hurrying to make use of the situation. She’s not moving as she continues to stare at her, head cocked and eyes careful. She’s clearly waiting for Clarke to give her a go-ahead. And Clarke’s hushed, desperate _please_ is all the verbal confirmation she needs. 

The almost-tenderness with which she’s touching her is gone. Instead, her grip becomes iron, both on her wrists and her jaw, as she leans down and crashes her lips against Clarke’s. Clarke thinks next time she’ll taste blood. (She’s not wrong) 

Lexa doesn’t ask her for a safe word the first time. Probably because it’s more of an introductory session. Even Clarke, as much of a newbie as she is, can tell she doesn’t go all out. It’s not even going half-way for Lexa. She’s just dipping her – and Clarke’s – toes in. 

She’s testing her, and Clarke knows that. She’s trying to figure out if there will be a next time, and Clarke’s shocked at how desperately she wants to prove to her that there should be one. She wants her to let go, completely, so that she can do that, too. 

For now, though, Lexa’s teasing feels on the verge of mocking. Clarke cries out, and Lexa quietly utters ‘ _silence’_ as she continues the sweet torture of circling her fingers around her core, but not diving in yet. The rules are fairly simple and easy to figure out. She obeys – she gets what she wants. She doesn’t – she gets punished. 

(She wonders what happens if being punished _is_ what she wants) 

“Ask me,” Lexa says, evenly, as she finally, finally enters her, but keeps a maddeningly slow pace of _almost_ , but not quite _enough_ to send her tumbling over the edge, purposefully missing all the spots Clarke desperately needs her at. 

It takes Clarke another several seconds of trembling and fighting against seeking relief by rolling her hips and _making_ Lexa hit the right spot, but she figures it out. “May I -- fuck -- may I come?” 

“Try again,” Lexa tells her, and Clarke thinks she would’ve loved to slap that smirk off her face if she weren’t playing the role right now. 

She bites her lower lip almost to the point of breaking skin to stop a moan from escaping. Lexa’s realized early on how much she liked being loud, and the first thing she did was, of course, taking that away from her. She still struggles through it, but she figures Lexa lets it slide because it’s her first time. She knows she won’t let her make this mistake twice. “Please,” she begs, feeling her legs start to shake both with frustration and pleasure that’s bordering on unbearable. “ _Please_ may I come, please, Lexa--”

“Good girl,” Lexa whispers right in her ear as she leans down again, and then, her fingers curl upwards and stroke, stroke, stroke as she bites down on her neck, hard, and Clarke sees stars. 

She hears a scream before she realizes it’s her, and she doesn’t even fight – doesn’t have the energy to, really – when she slips into unconsciousness. 

***

When she wakes up, Lexa’s not there. It’s more expected than not, but something deep within Clarke still clenches, wistfully. (Later, Lexa will explain to her that it’s the need for aftercare she failed to offer to her, but she just couldn’t stay that day, no matter how much she actually wanted to.) 

Her chest grows lighter, though, when she discovers a note on her nightstand. Lexa’s neat cursive lets her know she had to take care of a work-related crisis. On the back of the note, there’s a number. 

This is Lexa giving her a choice – subtly asking for permission, just like she did last night, and something deep within Clarke unclenches, more and more, until it’s easy to breath and her body is buzzing with anticipation. 

Lexa comes over on Friday and traces the new painting on the easel with careful fingertips, eyes alight with wonder as she takes the streaks of black, blue and red in. “Beautiful,” she exhales, her eyes flicking between the nervous artist and the frank, sensual portrait of a girl, her face contorted with pleasured pain as she grasps at her own body, nude, splattered with harsh, angry colors. “Both of you.” Her eyes finds Clarke’s as she touches the painted mouth that’s open in a silent scream. 

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Clarke tells her, and neither feel the need to clarify whether she’s talking about her work or _them._ It’s both, and they both know it. 

***

It becomes Lexa’s signature gesture – running her thumb over Clarke’s lips and staring her in the eye as she waits for her to agree. Every time, without fail. Clarke doesn’t tell her, but she’s grateful for that. It’s calming to know she always has a chance to back out. Even if Lexa’s already drove across town to see her, has cancelled her plans and cleared her evening and her night just for her, she still has an option to say no. 

She still holds the power, in a way, and that knowledge is exhilarating. She does want to push it further, though. Give Lexa even more control over her. Part of her wants to know what it’s like to be completely at someone else’s mercy, but she knows they are not there yet. 

“Some people never reach that stage,” Lexa tells her quietly as she gently rubs the ointment into Clarke’s wrists, rubbed raw with the rope. “Be patient.” She’s generally quiet when they finish. Almost soft. It’s a striking contrast against her persona in bed. Oh, no, she’s not particularly loud during sex, either, be it one of their sessions or just a regular hook-up. But there’s steel in her voice and in her grip when she commands Clarke’s pleasure, and she thinks that’s what heightens it so much. That’s why she lets her do it to her. 

That’s what makes her special, and it scares Clarke, but she’s too far gone to let her go by now. She’s addicted in the worst of ways. She thinks that must be part of the game they play. (She’s wrong, but she’s already overwhelmed by the whirlwind of new emotions Lexa’s brought with her, and she’s too blissfully drained after each encounter to really question their odd bond.) 

***

Clarke’s just finishing with yet another one of her new pieces when Lexa walks in with a bottle of cold water. “You really need to learn how to close the door,” she comments lightly. “God, it’s fucking hot outside.” 

“I second that,” Clarke murmurs, standing up and wiping her hands with a wet cloth. “You’re early.” 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa offers. “My meeting ended earlier than expected, and I didn’t really have anything to entertain myself with.” 

“Except me,” Clarke smirks. Lexa smirks back. 

“Except you.” 

(Except Lexa’s clearly exhausted from work and heat, and Clarke doesn’t really mind just sitting there. Outside of bedroom, she finds Lexa’s presence -- calming, almost. She does need to finish working, too. Or so she tells herself, and Lexa.

And Lexa’s too tired to mind it.)

***

“Rough day?” Clarke asks when Lexa wakes up from an impromptu nap she fell into after agreeing to wait while Clarke’s done with her piece. 

“You could say that.” She stretches, a sliver of flesh on display where the hem of her shirt rises up. Clarke blinks. Tells herself to focus on her face, but that’s even worse. It’s unfair that Lexa manages to make _sleepy_ look so damn beautiful. “I’ve been staying up all night a lot lately.” 

Ignoring the sudden white flash of irritation is more difficult than expected. Mostly because the feeling itself is not expected at all. “Oh?” she asks, trying to keep it teasing. A little coy. “Doing what – or should I say _who?_ ” 

Lexa grins. “You, mostly, but also,” she rolls her neck till it pops, groaning as it does. “My job.” 

“I knew it,” Clarke says. “You _are_ that kind of entertainment. Man, that means I owe you _a lot_ of money.” She manages to duck the first time Lexa lunges for her, but Lexa’s still faster. She blames her insane diet for that, because really, no carbs? 

Lexa’s laughing as she grabs her from behind. The couch’s springs groan in protest as they tumble down, and Clarke doesn’t care. “No, really,” she manages through her own laughter as she stares up at Lexa who’s jokingly pinned her hands to the cushions with her own. “What do you do?” 

She’s surprised when she is actually able to see hesitation so clearly on Lexa’s face. Come to think of it, Lexa’s never really let her guard down around her – which sounds ridiculous considering they are sleeping together. Sounds even more ridiculous considering the nature of their arrangement. Now, she’s cracking. Probably the nap she’s still shaking off. “I,” she starts. Studies Clarke’s face for a brief pause. “I’m a writer.” 

Clarke can’t help it. “What?” Her knee-jerk reaction makes Lexa arch an eyebrow at her. 

“What?” she echoes. “I don’t look like I could be a writer?” 

“Well, I mean,” Clarke stumbles with her words. “It’s not that you don’t look like it, I just kind of -- I honestly assumed you were like, running your own corporation or something.” 

Lexa’s smirk is slow and amused. “Because writers are soft and I’m cutthroat?” 

“Considering the things I let you do to me,” Clarke points out, her own smirk spreading across her face, “can you blame me?” 

***

“I do run my own business, in a way,” Lexa tells her when they lay in bed. There’s satisfying exhaustion buzzing throughout Clarke’s body, and she’s close to passing out, but Lexa’s quiet voice jolts her awake. “I own a publishing house. But I started as a writer.” Clarke tries not to shudder when Lexa idly traces her collarbone, clearly lost in thought, because this seems like an important conversation to her. But, God, is this hard. Especially when her fingers run over the bite mark, fresh and faintly aching. “That’s what I want to do. Have always wanted to do.” 

Somehow, she manages to find her voice and not drown in the lazy kind of pleasure she seems to always get lost in whenever Lexa touches her like this. “That’s what you _want_ to do? Does it mean that’s not what you do right now?” 

Lexa shrugs. “Not really.” She sighs, turning to lie on her back and staring at the ceiling. There it is again – hesitation to continue talking, because if she does, it will mean she’s opening up. And Clarke thinks that’s not what she wants to do. Not with her. And why would she? 

But she continues. Doesn’t look at her, but speaks again. “I haven’t really written anything for a year or so,” she says. Then, she smiles. Meets Clarke’s gaze with her amused one. “And then I met you. We’re using each other in more ways than one, aren’t we?” 

Clarke doesn’t want to dwell on the way the word ‘ _using’_ makes her feel. It’s just too complicated for her right now, because there’s desire and sharp pleasure and a hint of disappointment all rolled into one, and she does not want to deal with it right now. Instead, she tosses her head back and laughs, loud and unreserved. “Who else can say they get to fuck their muse every week?” 

***

It all kind of goes to hell one night when Clarke lets her curiosity – that’s what it is, she tells herself – get the best of her. “Do you have more girls like me?” 

The speed with which Lexa suddenly shuts down would be fascinating if it didn’t cut so deep – and that’s also something that takes Clarke by surprise. Unpleasant surprise. “Does it matter?” 

Clarke blinks. “It’s just a question,” she states. Snaps, more like it, because – why does it hurt so much, and so sudden? “It’s not a big deal. Calm down.” In retrospect, that’s the worst thing she could’ve said. 

Lexa sighs. Swings her long legs over the edge of the bed and rises to her feet mid-sentence. “I know where that question leads,” she says evenly as she starts to dress. 

Clarke springs to her feet, too. Not without wincing. Tonight was a particularly rough one. She wanted Lexa to push her boundaries, and push them she did. Her inner thighs burn and ache – it is nice to know she’s still able to do a split, though. “What’s with the temper tantrum? It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me.” 

Lexa’s back turns to stone for a fraction of a second, and then, without another word, she tugs her pants on, grabs her shirt and leaves. 

***

 **Lexa:** we need some ground rules.

Clarke reads the text and locks her phone. She doesn’t answer. 

***

Clarke thinks she hates her. Just a little. 

***

She considers not answering when Lexa knocks on her door – and there’s no doubt it’s her, because everyone else usually calls in advance and she didn’t order anything so it can’t be delivery and, if she’s being honest with herself, she kind of wants it to be her. That’s, after another careful knock, she sighs and stands up, grabbing her robe off the chair and tugging it on. She wonders, for a brief moment, how Lexa would’ve reacted if she actually opened the door naked – she likes sitting around her apartment fully nude – but decides she hasn’t earned that yet. 

“You started locking the door,” Lexa tells her when her eyes land on her. 

“I only leave it unlocked when I expect company.” She makes sure to give Lexa a pointed look as she says it. 

Lexa chuckles, and it just makes this whole situation all the more infuriating. “Oh,” she says. 

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you want something, or--” 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa interrupts, dead serious. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did. And I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. It was… childish.” Her eyes search Clarke’s face, but Clarke’s expression is neutral. 

“Okay,” she says simply. Lexa sighs. 

“I’m also sorry for the text I sent you. Sometimes, I can be an asshole when I feel… out of my element,” she says slowly. “And… I’m sorry.” 

Clarke doesn’t waver. “You don’t owe me an apology,” she shrugs. “We’re not dating.” 

Lexa briefly closes her eyes and locks her jaw at that. As if counting to ten in her head. “We’re not strangers to each other, either,” she says quietly, opening her eyes. “What we have – what we share – there are married couples who don’t have that. And never will.” 

Clarke scoffs. All of the disappointment and anger and embarrassment over _craving_ the woman in front of her that’s been brewing inside her for several days finally bursts free. “Rough sex and handcuffs? I let you bite my boobs from time to time, and suddenly we’re Romeo and Juliette?” 

Lexa’s gaze darkens. She almost takes a step forward, and it’s clear to see how much effort it takes for her to stay put. Clarke wonders what her body was telling her to do. Grab her, probably; slam against the wall and prove her wrong. “No,” she says, slowly and quietly. “You know it’s not about that. You gave me a part of yourself you never let anyone see, and you never _will_ \--”

Suddenly, it’s all too much. “Lexa,” she sighs, drained. “Why are you telling me this? Last time you freaked out over one question because you thought I was trying to, I don’t know, coerce you into a relationship or some shit, and now you’re here practically telling me we’re made for each other. Do you hear yourself?” 

Lexa sighs, too. Only now Clarke notices the dark circles under her eyes and the weariness of her face. It looks like she’s been having trouble sleeping. “That’s not what I’m saying.” She sounds tired, too. “I just… I think we have something good, and something special, and I don’t want to throw it away. I miss this.” She cocks her head to the side, studying Clarke. “Don’t you miss this, too?” 

She does. God, she does, but she also doesn’t want to feel like shit every time Lexa _feels out of her element._ On the other hand, though, she thinks she wouldn’t feel this way if she hasn’t made the mistake of becoming more… attached than their arrangement calls for. This one is kind of on her. And Lexa’s right. They do have something good, and something special, and Clarke doesn’t want to lose it. 

She _knows_ no one else would be able to make her feel the way Lexa does. 

“Next time,” she starts, slowly, trying to ignore the way Lexa’s face brightens – and the pang in her chest at the sight. “Next time, talk to me. If I’m out of line, tell me I’m out of line. It’s simple as that. Fuck buddies are allowed to talk, too, okay?” 

“Okay. I…” Lexa blinks. “I want to answer your question. I slept with other women. In the beginning. Does that bother you?” 

“No,” Clarke lies. Lexa nods, takes a step forward, and captures her lips with her own. 

***

Two days later, she finds herself on her knees, legs spread and back bent while Lexa finishes tying her hands behind her back. She’s practically immobilized at this point, and the anticipation of what’s to come has her _leaking_ onto the bed. 

She hears Lexa chuckle from behind her. “Gorgeous,” she praises, and Clarke shivers when she feels blunt nails scratch down her thighs. “Try to last this time.” 

She already knows she won’t. 

***

“My dad,” Clarke whispers before clearing her throat. They’ve been laying in bed for half an hour now, trading small kisses and murmurs. It’s getting increasingly harder to remember that it’s part of the _routine_. Clarke tries not to think about it. “He passed away when I was sixteen. He gave me this watch.” 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa whispers to her. Kisses her hair and lets her burrow further into her embrace. She can feel her swallow before saying her next words. “I barely remember my parents. They died in a plane crash when I was four.” 

Clarke covers her face in soft kisses, and Lexa doesn’t comment that she’s not the one who needs aftercare. 

(Every dawn they share together ends like this from now on; uncovering one thing after another, and Clarke’s not entirely sure they should allow this to happen, but it feels just as good as their nights.)

***

She has mixed feelings about Lexa noticing every little thing when it comes to her mood and/or wellbeing. It’s cause and effect, really; it makes her feel warm and safe, and feeling warm and safe has her feeling unsettled and, sometimes, guilty. Because she’s not supposed to feel that way and it’s confusing and frustrating, and she doesn’t like it one bit. 

And, of course, Lexa notices. Lexa always fucking notices. 

This time, it starts with a wince. Of course, Lexa immediately sits up, peering at her in the darkness of her room. “Are you okay?” Her low whisper, combined with a careful, feather-like touch of her fingertips on her thigh sends shivers down Clarke’s spine that aren’t exactly welcomed at the moment. Or – she doesn’t fucking know anymore. 

“Yeah,” she manages. “A little sore.” 

“You should’ve told me,” Lexa scolds her quietly as she gently makes her turn and lie on her back so she can look at her. 

Clarke feels the need to be a brat about it. “Why?” 

“Clarke. Don’t start.” Lexa’s gaze is stern, but her hands are not as they slide higher, closer to her core, massaging one ache away and causing the other kind. 

“Why not?” 

Lexa rises to kneel on the bed, and under the moonlight, her eye-roll is perfectly visible. “Just -- stop talking,” she tells her, before softly nudging her thighs apart and settling between them. “I have other uses for your mouth.” 

“Do you, now?” Clarke subtly tries to scoot away from her, but she knows it’s a battle she’ll lose. Her body’s already betrayed her, and she arches into Lexa’s hands, not quite used to these caring touches. Usually, they come after the sex. Not before. 

“I want you to stop talking,” Lexa tells her with a smirk, just before settling between her legs and pressing a tiny kiss to her inner thigh, “so you can scream.” 

She’s late to work the next day, and she doesn’t care. Her body carries Lexa’s uncharacteristically soft touch with her the whole day, and night, and the day after that. She can’t stop remembering the way she took care of her. Full lips and a skilled tongue gently coaxing climax after climax out of her until she begged her to stop. Those same lips caressing her skin as Lexa soothed her to sleep. 

Honestly, if she doesn’t want her to get ideas, she shouldn’t fucking feed into them. 

***

 **Clarke:** I think we should stop. I’m sorry. 

 **Lexa:** Don’t be sorry. 

*** 

At first, she wanted to burn all of the paintings she’s created while Lexa and her have been having their affair. She quickly decides, however, that it would be blasphemous to do so after years of creating virtually nothing. Besides, Lexa’s done nothing wrong, not really. She’s always kept her word, she showed up when Clarke needed her to, she let her discover herself, and she took care of her afterwards. 

It’s not her fault Clarke was dumb enough to fall in love with her when she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t. 

(She wonders if Lexa wants to get rid of her recent works too, since they were fueled by her, Clarke, but – why would she do that? Clearly, she’s not haunted by her feelings for her. She _has_ no feelings. For her, that is. Or in general. Clarke doesn’t fucking know.) 

Lincoln, her business partner and the co-owner of their art gallery, looks up, startled, when she barges into his office the next day. He’s cautious. Clarke can’t blame him. She probably looks manic, after a sleepless night of staring at her works. 

“I think I have something,” she tells him, plopping onto a chair in front of his desk. “For my exhibition. I mean -- I think I should have my own exhibition.” Because what better way to get over a _non-break up_ break up than become successful as a result? 

His careful expression quickly becomes one of joy. “Clarke, that’s awesome!” He stands up to give her one of his famous giant bear hugs, and she doesn’t fight it. It feels good to be appreciated. And loved, even though it’s platonic. And safe. And warm. 

She grits her teeth and awkwardly pats Lincoln’s back to let him know he can let go now. 

“I’m so happy for you,” he continues to gush as he takes a step back, still keeping her hands on her shoulders. “When did you start painting again?” 

 _When she turned everything upside down,_ she thinks bitterly, but doesn’t say it. Mostly because Lincoln would’ve just shot her a blank look. “Several months ago,” she tells him. “I wasn’t sure if it was anything worthwhile, but now I kind of have a collection. Of sorts.” 

He, of course, gives her a pointed look. “ _Anything_ you do is worthwhile,” he tells her. “As a fellow art graduate – an extremely talented one, - I can confirm. But seriously,” he hugs her again, this time briefly. “This is amazing news. We are so celebrating it tonight.” 

“You haven’t even seen it yet! What if it’s crap?” 

*** 

Lincoln doesn’t consider it crap, and Clarke doesn’t know if she’s relieved or disappointed. He is a little… _thrown,_ however. In fact, the first words that come out of his mouth are _holy shit._  

“See,” Clarke snorts. “Told you it’s crap.” 

“No, it’s… wow,” he breathes out, looking around. There are fifteen works that Clarke couldn’t stop painting, every hour of the day when she wasn’t at work or with Lexa. Fifteen works. Half of them are of her. She tries not to dwell on it. 

It proves to be a little difficult when Lincoln nods at one of the paintings. “She’s beautiful. A friend of yours?” 

“You could say that.” Since Lincoln’s known her for a long time and is not an idiot, he immediately understands there’s much more to it. And because he’s known her for a long time and is not an idiot, he doesn’t question her further. 

“Cool,” he says. “Guess we have an exhibition to prep.” 

***

“Have you thought of a name for your collection?” 

Clarke chews on her lower lip. She has. She kind of already has one, but she’s not -- she’s just not too sure. “Dawn,” she says. Because Lexa used to leave at dawn, at first. Because she became the most tender at dawn, later. Because dawn was kind of the opposite of what they were doing but also the same. Dawn was the beginning. 

 _Dawn_ was her fucking safe word because of all that crap, and maybe after the exhibition is done and all of the pieces are sold she’ll finally get the closure she needs.

***

She shows up to the opening. Of course she does. She also trades in her usual suits for an elegant dress, dark blue and slim-fitted, and Clarke almost breaks the glass of champagne she’s holding when she sees her. 

She could try and hide form her, but it’s her space and her exhibition and her world, and Lexa’s no longer welcome here. Except Lexa clearly didn’t get the hint, because she faces Clarke with a lopsided smirk and a teasing tilt of her head. 

She kind of wants to slap her, she thinks. Not the kind of slap that -- but oh no, she’s not gonna go there. “Hey,” Lexa tells her, evenly, confidently, when Clarke comes up next to her. 

“Hey. Why are you here?” 

Lexa studies her as she takes a sip of her drink. “As your main model, it’s only fair, don’t you think?” She asks before pointedly looking around, staring at her own face with a grin. “I love the name you’ve picked. These are stunning, by the way. Flattery will get you everywhere.” 

“Nowhere I want to be,” Clarke scoffs. Weakly. Way too weakly, and Lexa’s grin grows wider, becomes a smile far too gentle to be openly displayed in public. 

“You’re angry at yourself,” she tells her quietly. “Not at me.” 

“I can do both, thank you very much,” Clarke interjects, but that doesn’t stop Lexa from continuing with her thought. 

“You don’t have to be angry, you know.” Lexa swallows, thickly, visibly, suddenly nervous, and Clarke doesn’t know what shocks her more – that Lexa’s capable of experiencing such an emotion, or that she’s letting her see it. “You don’t have to be angry just because you have feelings for me--” 

“Okay,” Clarke laughs, mostly to mask the dread pulling in her stomach, as she takes a step back. “Nice seeing you, I gotta go.” 

“Clarke.” A warm, strong hand grasps her arm, stopping her. “Don’t be childish. Talk to me.” 

Wrestling her arm out of Lexa’s grip is surprisingly easy. _Surprisingly_ mostly because she’s never tried to before. “Don’t tell me what to do,” she sneers back. “We’re not fucking right now.” 

“I missed you.” 

And that’s how it goes. She’s ready to storm off and cross Lexa out of her life and forget her, but one simple phrase and she’s frozen. Just standing there, staring at her and thinking she’s never noticed just how delicate Lexa’s shoulders are. How fragile her neck is. 

“I missed you,” Lexa tells her again, quietly. Her long fingers are playing with the stem of her glass, and it’s clear she struggles to keep eye contact with her, and Clarke thinks she’s never been more in love with her. “When you texted me, I was determined to respect your decision. I was kind of expecting it, but what I didn’t expect was for it to hurt so -- so fucking _much._ ” Lexa takes a deep breath to calm herself, and blinks. “And then I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About us. About what we had, and what we had was so much more than what we were trying to label it as. What I’m trying to say is… I want you back. But I also want this to be different this time.” She licks her lips. “Real.” 

“I -- Lexa…” Out of everything Lexa could have possibly said, she chooses one fucking thing that leaves Clarke speechless and completely unprepared. 

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Lexa hurries to tell her. “When – if – you make a decision, call me. I’ll wait. And…” She looks around again, this time with awe shining in her gaze. “You’re incredible. Absolutely – incredible.” 

*** 

Because her power of will is non-existent, she ends up falling in bed with Lexa that same night. “I still need to think,” she breathes as she tugs Lexa’s dress off. 

“Okay,” Lexa breathes back and tries to roll them over. Clarke doesn’t let her. 

“Change of plans,” she whispers with a slow smirk as she remains on top. Tugs Lexa’s panties down her toned legs and leaves the first bite of the night just above her hipbone. It’s not sharp enough to bruise, but it still has Lexa widening her eyes and locking gazes with a grinning Clarke. 

Then, her hand finds the back of her neck and her lips find hers. “Okay,” she whispers. 

***

On their first date, Lexa brings her a book. It has a simple blue cover. Hard. Clarke reads the name. 

 _Dawn_ by Lexa Woods. “It’s the first copy,” the writer herself tells her as she sits in front of her, and she sounds shy. “The very first one. I want you to have it. If you want it to have it, of course.” 

Clarke traces the engraved name with her fingertips, transfixed. Then, she chuckles, more and more until people sitting next to them start shooting her looks and a frown appears on Lexa’s face. “I’m sorry, I just,” she manages to get it under control, more or less. “I didn’t even know your last name was Woods.” 

Lexa chuckles, too, and shrugs. “You know things that actually matter,” she points out. And Clarke does. It just strikes her as downright hilarious – between baring their bodies to each other at night and their souls before morning, they somehow skipped the basics. 

“I do, but I want to know little details, too,” she says, smiling. “Favorite color?” 

“Blue. Like your eyes.”  

Clarke laughs again. “Laying it on thick, are we?” She teases. Lexa only smirks. 

“I want there to be a second date, you know,” she replies in tone. 

Clarke teases her about putting out on the first date later and gets smacked with a pillow. She doesn’t mind. 


End file.
